


What Luck!

by Nuuhtella



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Felix Felicis, Potions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-05
Updated: 2016-09-05
Packaged: 2018-08-13 04:56:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7963264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nuuhtella/pseuds/Nuuhtella
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of how one brilliant potioneer came to invent the most lucky potion in the world... *I do not own any of the characters in this story, they belong to J.K. Rowling and her affiliates*</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Luck!

Sure the round circular office was unfamiliar and, if he were to be perfectly honest, a disappointment. It was not grand as he had expected, nor were there multitude of fascinating objects or perhaps even the sign of some projects in the room. Overall it was extremely dull, not how the office of a headmistress of Hogwarts should be. In the centre of the room stood a large, oak desk with a throne-like chair standing behind it and a smaller chair facing it. On one side of the wall sat portraits of previous headmasters and headmistresses who mostly slept in their frames. There was a small cabinet underneath the window on which sat the patched and frayed sorting hat, dormant as it was currently January. However, behind the desk sat a most fair looking witch. Unfortunately her demeanour was anything but. Her name was Elizabeth Burke and she made sure to make it known that she did not approve of those of an un-pure blood status. Fortunately for him he was a pure-blood and a Slytherin, sharing most of her views. Zygmunt Budge sat in the chair opposite her, a small boy of 14 with a pointed face and jet black hair. Professor Burke cleared her throat.

“So, pray tell, what is the reason for this visit?” she asked.

“Headmistress, there is no doubt that I am the most excellent potioneer that ever did walk these halls. I would even flatter myself to state that I will be the greatest to ever exist. There is nobody who could compete or who would dare.” He paused for a dramatic effect. Taking a deep breath he continued. “Although I am not yet _‘of age’_ as one might say there is no doubt in my mind that I would most certainly win if you allowed me to enter.”

 For a moment Burke merely scrutinised him. “Enter what?”

“Why, the _Wizarding Schools Potions Championship_ of course!”

“Budge. You may be talented but there is no possibility of you entering the championship. It is far too dangerous for somebody not yet of age,” she said plainly.

He narrowed his eyes. “What did you say?” Zygmunt hissed.

“I said that I forbid it.”

“How dare you.”

A dangerous look crept on to Burke’s face. “Pardon?”

“How dare you attempt to stifle me. ME!” he bellowed. “I AM THE GREATEST POTIONEER TO EVER LIVE AND YOU! YOU WOULD THINK IT RIGHT TO NOT ALLOW MY BRILLIANCE TO SHINE THROUGH.”

“YOU WILL NOT ADDRESS ME THUS, ZYGMUNT BUDGE,” she yelled back, just as angry.

“I WILL ADDRESS YOU HOW YOU DESERVE TO BE ADDRESSED! NO MORE SHALL I STAY HERE, HOGWARTS HAS MADE ITS BIGGEST MISTAKE YET. I SHALL LEAVE AND I SHALL ENTER THE COMPETITION OF MY OWN ACCORD AND YOU CANNOT STOP ME!”

With that he stormed out of the room and down the spiral staircase, seething with anger. Soon he had reached his dormitory and slammed the door behind him which echoed around the entire common room. Zygmunt packed quickly, leaving his school robes behind along with a few of his more useless textbooks. After donning his travelling cloak Zygmunt set off into the night swearing to never set foot in Hogwarts again.

* * *

 

“WOT IN THE BLOODY ‘ELL IS WRONG WITH YOU, FUNGUS-FACE?” a dumpy woman yelled. “Now you have no future. Didn’t think of that, eh? Thought you’d live ‘ere with me and your good-for-nothin’ father forever did you?”

“No,” Zygmunt replied angrily.

“Well good cos’ you ain’t.”

“Fine by me!” he shouted, storming up the rickety stairs to the room he shared with his three brothers and slamming the door.

A few months passed as Zygmunt attempted to reach the committee of the potioneer championship, spending most days brewing potions or writing letter after letter to them awaiting a reply. It took until the end of March for him to receive an ivory coloured envelope. As soon as the owl arrived he ripped open the letter, scanning the parchment hungrily. However, soon his expression changed to one of incredulity. They regretted to inform him that he was no longer eligible as he would not be representing a school which was essential. Hot anger boiled through him as he precariously threw his most prized possessions into a travelling bag and stormed again down the familiar rickety stairs.

“Wot? Not lettin’ you compete? Not fallin’ over themselves to see the great potioneer ‘Zygmunt Budge’? Wot a surprise, Fungus-Face!” his mother said as he reached the kitchen. She let out a shrill cackle as he continued to scowl. Zygmunt noticed with disgust his father lying drunk on the floor by the fireplace. “Wot you gonna’ do now then, son? Try and force some blind girl into marriage?”

“At least I don’t have to spend my life with a drunk,” he sneered.

“Why you little-“

His mother took a swing at him with a heavy pot but missed as he ducked and headed straight out of the door. Through the next few weeks he travelled around the country, intending to find the perfect spot to set up his new home. Finally he found it, settling down on the island of Hermetray to his new life of solitude.

* * *

 

The years were not kind to Zygmunt. Though he was undoubtedly a genius his continued confinement and failure to yet invent a potion worthy of his brilliance had turned him slightly mad. He was now a middle-aged man of 32 and becoming increasingly desperate to produce something of note. His hair was a wild mane with grey colouring it and he had grown the most awful beard. Admittedly he had invented a few exceptionally powerful potions already but they were not the masterpiece of which he was waiting for. Day in and day out Zygmunt spent brewing new potions; there was not a day that went past when some sort of fume or vapour was not wafting out of the chimney. Owls continued to arrive for him over the years although he never bothered to open them. This had resulted in a large piled of unopened envelopes stacked untidily in the corner. It therefore came as an unwelcome surprise when, on one particularly hot summers day as he was conducting his latest experiment, a guest in the form of his older brother and whom he assumed to be his young niece arrived.

“Zygmunt,” his brother greeted him.

“What do you want?” he replied rudely.

“Come for a little visit, haven’t we ‘eh, Euphemia?” he said introducing the small girl. “Can we come in?”

Without waiting for an answer his brother pushed past him into the small shack. “I don’t like visitors, Gawain,” Zygmunt said with contempt lacing his voice.

“Yeah I know,” Gawain replied rather cheerily. “Decided I don’t care about that!” Zygmunt scowled. “This your latest then? Smells good,” he said, indicating the potion. Zygmunt nodded his assent. “Green ‘int a very creative colour though.”

“It’s not supposed to be green,” he said through gritted teeth. “Look-“ he began but stopped abruptly when the sound of shattering glass sounded behind him.

“Oops,” the high-pitched voice of his niece declared. She giggled before rushing out of the door, distracted by something outside.

Zygmunt turned back to his brother, a thunderous expression on his face. “Look what that little _brat_ has done!”

“Steady on, that’s your niece.” Zygmunt tore at his hair, breathing so heavily that you could see his chest rise and fall. “Come on,” Gawain pushed. “Come and meet her, yeah? She’s been dyin’ to meet you she ‘as.”

For a moment he merely stared at his brother, taken a little by surprise. It seemed as though he was considering it. “No.”

“Gawain?” a harsh voice called from the inside of his pocket.

“That’s me wife, I’ll be back in a tick!”

Zygmunt watched as his brother strode out of the door, pulling out a small mirror. He seriously considered locking the door but knew that his brother would not give up that easily. Instead he turned grumpily back to his potion, attempting to work out what he was missing. It occurred to him that he had no idea whom his brother had married; he hoped only that Gawain hadn’t stooped low enough to marry a mudblood. After a few moments he realised that he was no longer alone, turning to find his niece climbing all over his possessions.

“Stop that,” Zygmunt snapped at the small girl. She merely giggled, her hazel eyes twinkling mischievously.

He turned back to his potion though found it extremely hard to concentrate. “What’s this?” his niece kept asking, pointing at various things. His usual response was ‘shut up’ which seemed to amuse her rather than having the desired effect.

“Uncle Zyggy I’m bored! Play with me,” Euphemia demanded.

“No,” he growled.

This did not please her and a scowl formed upon her forehead. “Play with me.”

“I said no.”

“PLAY! WITH! ME!” she screamed, jumping up and down. “PLAY. WITH. MEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!”

“N- Gawain? GAWAIN GET IN HERE!” Zygmunt bellowed over her continued screams.

Either his brother was out of earshot or was ignoring him. In a fit of rage Euphemia had grabbed one of the glass jars on the shelf behind him and swung it with such force at the cauldron that it smashed, spilling its contents everywhere. As though in slow motion Zygmunt saw three Squil Bulbs fall in to his potion, causing rippled effects where they had hit the surface.

“NOOOOO!” the anguished scream left his lips as Zygmunt fell to his knees while clutching madly at his hair.

He had barely noticed that the girl had stopped screaming due to his sudden shocking behaviour. For a few moments he stared wordlessly at the potion, devastated that it was now ruined. Then, as if by a miracle, the potion began to change colour. Zygmunt crawled closer and peered into the cauldron waiting in suspense. He noticed that his niece had copied him, her nose resting on the cauldron’s edge. After a few seconds the potion had turned a beautiful, molten gold colour and droplets began to jump up like fish. He turned to Euphemia who had a delighted look on her face.

“HA HA!” cried Zygmunt in triumph. He picked up his niece and began to swing her around the room. “You did it! You helped me find the missing ingredient! My crowning achievement! I’VE DONE IT!”

They danced around the room with Euphemia giggling and Zygmunt singing with joy as his brother walked in. “What’s this?” he inquired.

“Your daughter is a wonderful, wonderful genius!”

“She is?” Gawain looked taken aback in this sudden change in attitude.

“Yes! This one will go far, won’t you?”

“Can we play now Uncle Zyggy?” she asked, her eyes alight with joy.

“Play? PLAY? Of COURSE we can play! Let’s go, Mia.”

With that Zygmunt ran out into the field carrying a delighted Euphemia and spent the rest of the day playing with his jovial niece as Gawain looked on slightly bewildered. From then on Zygmunt enjoyed visits from his favourite niece for the rest of his life. He still enjoyed his solitude but he did not mind her visiting as she was the only person he had ever loved. Of this he was sure.   


End file.
